Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Imogen: It's only 'cause I know how men are. And you're sweet. I'm not.
Julie: Nice save. Almost.
Imogen: I'll stop. I swear.
Julie: I'll believe it when I see it.
Imogen: Okay, go back to bed.
Julie: Go back to your boy-toy. And come early next Sunday to tell me all about it. Okay?
Imogen: Deal.
She's right. I'm not really worried about her making bad choices. I'm worried she's the same as me, going through the same things I did, hiding them the way I do.
But if I can't lead by example, how can I expect her to share? I'm the older one. I'm the mature, responsible one. I'm supposed to be brave, chart a course for her.
But I'm not.
There's too much in my head. There's only one way to handle it.
I pull out my computer, start another blog entry, and write.
I write for nearly an hour. Until a sound upstairs calls my attention.
"Imogen?" Patrick's sleepy voice floats through the space. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just insomnia. The chai always does it."
"Come back to bed."
"I don't want to wake you," I say.
"I'm up." He fights a yawn.
"Are you?"
"I can be," he says.
I laugh. "I didn't mean that."
"Are you sure?"
"I am."
"I still want to talk to you," he says.
"I don't have anything to say."
"You can listen to me discuss color theory."
"Yellow, red, blue?"
"That's only the start."
I can't really make him out in the dark. Only the highlights from the moon.
"There are secondary colors, tertiary colors, complimentary colors."
"Complimentary colors? Are there critical colors?"
He laughs. "Yeah. Pink."
"No."
"It's true. People who love pink love to criticize."
"That sounds likely." I nod to my dark pink phone case. We have the same phone, except his case is red. "And what about men who love red?"
"Freaks."
"Really? That's a kind of color?"
"Horny colors, yeah," he says.
"Red is pretty horny."
"Basic color theory."
"They didn't teach that one in my art history class," I say.
"Imogen, you need to know something," he says.
"Yeah?"
"Talking about art is my love language," he says.
"Love languages aren't scientifically tested."
He laughs. "Perfect response."
"It's true. And where did you hear about love languages?"
"Everyone knows about love languages."
Do they? The theory makes a certain amount of sense. People show love in certain ways and they want to receive love in the same ways. They enjoy spending quality time with their partners, performing acts of service for their partners, offering their partners words of affirmation, or giving gifts.
And of course there's the one at play here: physical touch.
Some people show love with touch. Cuddles, kisses, hugs, fucks.
He doesn't mention the typical love languages. He sticks to his unique take. "Horny colors are one thing. If you start talking about pointillism or perspective"—he presses his hands to his heart—"I'll be a goner."
"I'll try to go easy on you."
"I appreciate it." He smiles. "How about a movie if you don't want to talk?"
"My pick?"
"Anything you desire."
"Even something with subtitles?"
"Especially something with subtitles. Remote is on the coffee table. Rent something if you want."
"Rent? Are you made of money?"
"Basically." He laughs and motions… something. Then he slips into the bathroom.
That's it. I need to wrap up… whatever I'm doing here.
I publish my entry, and I close my computer.
Chapter Eleven
"Get In, Get Off, Go Home"
Posted by Hearts and Thorns
Monday
2 A.M.
It turns out casual sex is a little more complicated than get in, get off, go home.
Go figure.
But then, how would I know?
I've never had good sex before. Not really. Sure, there were good kissers in high school. There was even the boy in the band (I know, I know, I'm a cliché) who rubbed my thigh over my jeans in a way that made my entire body buzz.
I wanted him so, so badly.
And then I had him—in a high school way—and I had enough. It was fine. We dated a few more weeks. I realized he only had two moves. Great moves, sure, but they still got old.
We broke up without a lot of fuss. I found someone else. Normal high school stuff.
The one time I tried on a relationship (a real, multiple months, meet the parents kind of relationship), it felt like a swimsuit two sizes too big.
It was useful as an extra practice suit, for creating drag in the pool, but otherwise?
It just didn't fit.
Still, I stayed, for a long time. I didn't know better. I didn't know how we were supposed to fit together. I didn't know sex could be better than okay. (After all, that excitement I felt when I was a teenager came with teenage hormones. And, sure, I wasn't exactly old, but I was old enough).
It's true, I didn't share, but he didn't leave the space for me. He took it instead.
He assumed he knew all there was to know about me.
He said he loved me, but he didn't. He couldn't.
He barely knew me.
He thought I loved the ocean for all the usual reasons—the surf, the sand, the chance to frolic in a bikini.